


Target Audience

by cemetery_driven



Series: crimelord 'verse [3]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: BDSM, Bruises, Crimelord AU, D/s, Drug Use, M/M, Marking, Ownership, possessive Frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemetery_driven/pseuds/cemetery_driven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank needs to send them a message, and they need to remember that Gerard is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Target Audience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gerardwaysgay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerardwaysgay/gifts).



> More Crimelord AU for gerardwaysgay, and I really hope this makes things feel better because she's had a bit of the sads lately.

Frank was beyond pissed off. He'd passed annoyed hours ago, when he'd send not one, but _four_ consecutive text messages, six minutes apart, to Gerard's phone. Gerard's phone, which, he insisted, hadn't charged properly the night before and had apparently run out of battery while he was out. Out at Frank's record store, and then one of the cute little coffee shops, with Mikey and a couple of the guys, and Frank's pissed off had gone through the ceiling.

 

There was a fucking reason Gerard wasn't meant to go running around town without Frank knowing where, and when, and who with. There were more than a few people who'd like to do one of two things involving his little pet. One, was they'd take him, shoot him in between the eyes, and make him believe Gerard was still alive to score a few million out of him. The second, of course, was those few guys who were supposedly working for him but of course, Frank didn't really trust anyone bar Mikey, Gerard, and Ray, and outside of those three, there were a handful he'd seen making the wrong eyes.

 

It wasn't Gerard Frank got worried about. He wasn't stupid – he knew Gerard wouldn't go riding off into the sunset with the first dude who offered. Gerard was his, and Gerard knew that. He just didn't realize how big a deal that could be sometimes, and how risky it was, and how other people didn't exactly see it that way and weren't necessarily going to stop if Gerard said no. 

 

He'd seen them looking at him. Staring Gerard down, like he was a fresh cut of prime steak in front of their starving carnivorous eyes. It happened whenever Gerard answered the door to them, or sat in on the meetings, or tagged along on one thing or another. It actually terrified Frank, how much they stared and how he could almost hear the fucking cogs ticking over in their little brains, and he knew that loyalty, for the most part, was a cash-or-death deal. He either bought their loyalty, or he held a gun to their head and forced them into it. The money, yeah, that was paying for the hits and the misses and everything else he had and everything else they did, but the money wasn't keeping their eyes in their own sockets.

 

Frank needed to make an example, to make a fucking point tonight. He'd sent out a message a half hour ago, just to the most important ones. The rest would hear it through the grapevine, which was good enough for Frank.

 

Gerard had been home a couple hours, and he'd had a migraine when he'd waltzed through the door with a string of poetic apologies rolling off his tongue, and Frank had given him the benefit of the doubt. The benefit of the doubt, a short-but-sweet slap in the face – not too hard, just to remind Gerard that he needed to do as he was told, needed to follow the rules – and then Frank had stripped him down and tucked him into the dark silk bedsheets, with a codeine pill to help him sleep.

 

Frank had some caterer guy Ray was buddies with – the only one he could get on short notice – cooking up the dinner in his kitchen. Even with the ungodly amount of cash Frank had, he hated the idea of having a personal chef. Or a live-in housekeeper, or whatever other staff rich dudes usually had waiting on them hand and foot. He had a couple of nice girls, Jamia and Lindsey, come by two or three times a week and just keep up with the overall cleanliness of the house, the dusting and upholstery and vacuuming of the rooms he didn't use and whatnot, but Frank maintained his space himself. They didn't go in the study, or the bedroom, and Frank didn't make them do their laundry or anything stupid like that. 

 

He didn't like people going through his stuff, and if he'd had the time and the motivation, he'd probably have just cooked the food himself. He avoided the kitchen, and instead went into the study to skim over some serial killer books. 

 

It wasn't until his phone buzzed with an alarm that he looked up from some book on a Canadian serial killer couple – which, admittedly, gave him a few ideas for his next venture with his little pet in the trunk of his car – that Frank moved from his chair at all. He marked the page, set it in the top drawer, and wandered back into the bedroom to wake Gerard up.

 

“Hey, babydoll,” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to Gerard's temple. “You gotta get up, angelboy. Everyone's gonna be here in a little while.”

 

Gerard mumbled incoherently, and stretched his arms out backwards. “Everyone?”

 

“We're having dinner, sweetie,” Frank said. “I thought I'd told you. We gotta get you dressed all nice, yeah?”

 

Gerard groaned again, and huffed. “Okay.”

 

Frank ruffled his hair. “Your head any better, babydoll?”

 

Gerard sat up slowly, and nodded. “Yeah, I'm just. Not awake yet.”

 

Frank laughed as he opened the closet, pulling out a black shirt and jacket and the darkest, least-faded pair of Gerard's jeans he could find. Frank fucking hated suit pants.

 

“You get to borrow one of my ties, pet,” he said, pulling a red one out and setting it down on top of the rest of the clothes on the bed. “We're gonna match.”

 

Gerard smiled, his eyes still sleepy. It made Frank's stomach twinge a little. His little pet could be the cutest little shit when he wanted to, and even at times when he didn't. Frank picked out his own clothes – exactly the same, except his shirt was white, because there was a spilled bleach mark on the chest of his black one. He'd probably tried to get blood out of it or something months ago. 

 

Gerard already had his jeans on, and was in the process of getting his shirt over his arms. Frank grabbed his wrists when he went to do up the buttons, wanting that little bit of closeness, that human contact. He wanted to dress his little babydoll up, and had the buttons done faster than what Gerard would've, and then had the thin red tie looped and knotted around his neck with practised ease.

 

Gerard looked up at him when his fingers lingered close to his throat, and his eyes looked almost hopeful. Frank knew he wanted his fingers wrapped around his throat, wanted to be reduced to a half-conscious, gasping, twitching mess from the lack of oxygen. He couldn't though, not now. They had shit to do, and Frank would get far, far too distracted and everything would fall apart. 

 

“Go brush your hair, pet,” Frank murmured, kissing Gerard on the forehead again. Gerard nodded, and hopped up off the bed and disappeared into the ensuite bathroom. 

 

Frank shrugged off his hoodie and tee shirt, scratching at the side of his head. At least it had been dyed recently, it looked so much better when his hair was actually red on the sides rather than the sort of shitty pinkish color it faded to. He hadn't bothered to wash it in a couple days, partly because he didn't want it to fade as fast as it usually did.

 

Frank slipped into the white collared shirt, cracking his neck as he did up the buttons. He had a point to make tonight, and he was going to make it heard. Mikey was probably going to hate his guts for a week, maybe more, but small sacrifices had to be made. Greater good or whatever. 

 

He slipped the tie around his neck and tied the knot, then pulled his jacket on, slipping his favorite little revolver into the inside pocket. Just in case something went astray. He wasn't big on getting all dressed up all the time, but he had to admit that he didn't look bad in what he wore. And it was comfortable, at least.

 

Gerard slipped back into the room, his hair still messy, but it could pass as being styled that way. Gerard's hair was never going to be neat anyway, and Frank handed him his jacket. 

 

When Gerard lifted his arms to get them in the sleeves and his shirt lifted just that little bit and Frank glimpsed the soft skin of his belly, he bit his lip. His pet was too fucking perfect, and all dressed up in his jacket and tie made him look even more edible. Frank crossed to the nightstand and pulled out his little stash of coke.

 

“Now, you can't get mad at me tonight, babydoll,” Frank murmured, setting up two lines on Gerard's Sandman comic. “There's a message I have to send to people.”

 

Gerard sniffled, and buttoned up his jacket. “Message?”

 

Frank rolled up one of the random banknotes they seemed to almost always have lying around in the top drawer. “That you're mine, Gerard. The message is that you're mine, and if anyone but me fucks you up, they're going to die.”

 

The first line disappeared through the rolled up note and into Frank's nose, and he hissed and shuddered a little, before he held out the note to Gerard. Gerard mimicked his actions, and Frank set the coke and comic and cash all back in their places.

 

“Why does there need to be a message, sir?” Gerard asked.

 

Frank rose off the bed and held out his hand for Gerard to take, which he did. “Because, babydoll... there are some people out there who need to hear it.”

 

He wasn't going to make Gerard paranoid, and he knew Gerard wasn't going to press it any further, so he flicked off the light as they left the room and made their way downstairs. 

 

Frank never used the formal dining room. Literally never fucking used it at all in his day to day life. Most meetings he held in the study, or the living room. Even when Mikey and Ray came for lunch or dinner, they always ate in the kitchen. The last time he'd used the formal dining room had been the last time someone had almost killed him. He should probably stop calling it the formal dining room and change it to the sending-a-message-over-a-meal room.

 

They stepped inside, the dark hardwood floor a little intimidating. It was the only room that was literally wood panelling all around, and honestly, Frank just couldn't be bothered spending the money to change something he used so rarely. Frank heard the cars starting to pull up in front of the house, kissed Gerard on the cheek, and pulled out the chair next to the head of the table.

 

“Sit tight, babydoll,” he murmured, and kissed Gerard on the forehead.

 

Frank stuck his head into the kitchen, where Ray's friend appeared to be in the process of getting plates laid out in preparation for feeding everyone. “They've just started to pull up, um. Just thought you should know,” Frank muttered. “Uh, I did pay you already, right?”

 

The guy nodded. “Yeah, man. Everything's good to go really, I'll start sending it out when everyone's in.”

 

Frank sighed, and made some vague gesture with his hand that could probably be construed as a thankyou, before heading toward the front door.

 

Mikey and Ray were already leaning on the hood of Ray's car, a cigarette between Mikey's fingers, engrossed in some conversation. They perked up when Frank stepped through the door, and looked at each other with a glance that Frank knew they knew something was going to be said within the next hour or so.

 

There were three more cars, all parked, and when Frank made his appearance, as did their inhabitants. Two guys from each, none of which Frank could accurately place names to faces at the moment. The next fifteen minutes faded out of Frank's mind completely, bar Ray's friend pouring everyone a glass of red wine and setting down bowls of tomato-and-something soup down before them.

 

“So, boss,” one guy – Frank decided, regardless of what his name actually was, he was going to dub him Lenny – began, breaking the chattered air around Frank's head. “I got a write-up for you if you want it, from the meth deals lately? Shit's going out of fashion by the looks, but we're still keeping above. Streets have been dead on it lately, my guys are trying, but-”

 

“You sure your guys aren't shooting it into their cocks?” Frank asked, eyebrow raised, and took a sip of wine. He fucking hated wine.

 

“Nah, nah, boss,” Lenny said. “We checked them all out a week ago. Not a one has trackmarks or whatever on any part of them. They're givin' us what they gotta give us for the shit anyway, it's just nobody's buying. The streets want the pharmaceuticals right now.”

 

Another guy – Frank named him Joey, and he wasn't sure why – piped up. “I got the same shit going on. All the streetrunners keep asking for pills, they want FDA approval stamp on their shit or something, I don't fucking know.”

 

Frank swallowed his mouthful of soup, and glanced at Gerard. He'd been silent the whole time, but that was probably a good thing so far.

 

“I can give you a number,” Frank said, nonchalant. “I know someone who may be able to help you out. Help _us_ out.”

 

The guys seemed content with that, and everything went back to a strange, vibrating chatter around Frank's head again. He had no concept of time right now, but he was pretty sure they'd been working on their soups for a while. He barely noticed when Ray's friend took the soup bowls away, and replaced them with the main course. Frank wasn't even hungry, but made himself eat a couple of mouthfuls anyway.

 

Gerard's shoe brushed along Frank's shin, and when Frank looked, he had a confused look on his face. Frank sighed, it was probably time for the message to be sent. He cleared his throat, and moved forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the solid wood table.

 

The room fell silent, and Frank stood up, twirling the steak knife between two fingers idly. “You all know there's a reason for tonight,” he began. “We wouldn't be sitting in this room if there wasn't. There's a problem, people. A pretty fucking serious one that, honestly, I am sick to fucking death of.”

 

There were a few glances shared between the others in the room, but Frank could feel Gerard's eyes trained on him, completely still and unwavering.

 

“You all know Gerard,” Frank continued. “You are all aware, of course, that we are in an _exclusive_ relationship. I emphasize exclusive.” Frank paused to take another sip of wine, and started moving around to stand over Gerard's shoulder. “I have been noticing, quite a lot lately, unfortunately, that some of you – not necessarily those sitting right here, but your buddies, or your runners, or whatever – can't keep your eyes to yourself.”

 

Frank's fingers tangled in Gerard's hair. “And you know what, boys? I'm not fucking cool with that. Gerard is  _mine._ ”

 

Frank tugged lightly, and Gerard gasped softly. “If anything ever happens to him, right, and I mean anything – if he breaks his fucking nail getting a glass for me from your fucking cupboard – you're going to be paying it back. You fuckers keep looking at him like he's your prized fucking steak?”

 

The entire room jumped, when Frank drove the knife-point a half-inch into the wood of the table, right next to Gerard's forearm. “You lose a fucking eye. You touch him?” he continued, wrenching the knife out, making the wood creak and splinter a little. “It's gonna vary. You brush his ass? You're losing your favorite hand. You try and get in his face? I'll slice off your lips.”

 

Frank took another swig from his wine glass. “I'm sure I don't need to drive the point home that if any one of you little fucking cunts, any fucking one of you, do a goddamn thing to  _my Gerard_ , you aren't going to be found. That goes for all your little fuck-around boys too. Your runners. Your buddies. Your fucking street rats. Every single one of you. I will I will carve you up  _my-fucking-self_ and feed you to the fucking forest for fertilizer.”

 

Frank tossed the knife back down on the table, and it skittered a little before it stopped in the center. He yanked back on Gerard's hair, making him squeak a little, and buried his face in Gerard's throat. He tasted like sweat and skin and some unidentifiable, irreplaceable blend of cigarettes and coffee and sex and drugs and just  _Gerard._ Frank bit down hard, his teeth sinking into Gerard's soft throat, the noises he made really sending shivers down Frank's spine. Frank sucked and bit and gnawed and he was pretty sure he could taste blood, maybe he'd broken skin or maybe it was just lingering beneath the surface, the warm, coppery taste teasing him.

 

He stood up, letting go of Gerard's hair. Gerard pawed at his neck, a low whine coming from the back of his throat.

 

“He's fucking mine, alright?” Frank yelled. “Show them.”

 

Gerard pulled his hair back and exposed his throat, and Frank saw the bite. The bruise. It was deep purple already, purple and red and blue and Frank swore he saw blood around the indentations from his teeth. 

 

“Get the fuck out,” Frank hissed. “All of you. Fuck off. Message received?”

 

There was a resounding noise of confused agreement, and Frank grabbed Gerard by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. He wanted to be upstairs, in bed, with Gerard out of that cute little fucking suit as soon as humanly possible, with no potential interruptions.

 

“Get the fuck out, go,” he repeated, and the room dispersed around him, the clatter of chairs and cutlery and glasses a dull buzz as he dragged Gerard out into the foyer, where he waited next to the door for them all to go. Mikey and Ray were, of course, the last, and Frank's face softened when they passed, and he shrugged lightly.

 

He'd call them later and explain. Right now, he wanted his little pet, his bed, and whatever he could get his hands on to make sure the whole goddamn world would know who Gerard belonged to for a while.


End file.
